"My uncle brought a copy with him and I read it," Bob answered. "I don't care for its principles, whether they are true or false—literature being its own principle—but to me it bears the mark of a political pamphlet that has happened to make a hit, strong with prejudice but hasty and slip-shod in expression. To me there is no art in it, no imagination but all sermon. The characters are unreal, standing in the light of a red fire; they are talking-machines, grinding out music-box melodies, set homilies; but the subject is powerful and the book needs no art to give it force. And many a year will pass before we hear the last of it."
"Why, Mr. Gradley, you can take an interest in light books after all. I was afraid that you were determined to keep yourself chained to the venerable masters of—of—what shall I say?—venerable masters of profound thought. That will do, won't it?"
"Very appropriate, I assure you, but 'Uncle Tom's Cabin' can scarcely be classed as a light book. It comes in a light garb but its nature is most serious."
The horse shied at a piece of paper fluttering in the road, and with a little scream she seized the lines. He asked her if she would give them back when she should find that no longer was there any danger, and laughing rhythmically and with blushes she returned the lines to him.
"No, apology and no embarrassment," said he. "It came of woman's instinctive sense of protection, of her responsibility at a time of peril."
"Now you are making fun of me, Mr. Gradley. Oh, boy (turning to look at me). What's his name? Dan? Oh, yes. How's my horse coming on, Dan? Well, for pity's sake, if he hasn't turned him loose."
The horse was grazing some distance down the road, and without waiting to beg pardon for my stupid neglect of the charge intrusted to me, I jumped down to run after him. Master and the young woman did not wait for me, but drove to Miss Potter's home, now but a short distance away. As I came up leading the horse toward the gate, where master and Miss Potter were standing, old man Potter came walking out. He was effusive in his welcome, swearing upon his life that never was he gladder to see a man. "Ah," he said, looking at me, "and this here is the boy that we all have heard such a good report about. A likely young feller, Mr. Gradley, and I don't reckon you'd care to sell him."
"No, sir," said Bob, assuming to be gentle but looking his contempt for the coarse old fellow. But Mr. Potter could interpret no looks of contempt; he was too busy surveying me from head to foot.
"Yes, reckon you do think a good deal of him, and I wouldn't wonder but it would take a right putty piece of money to buy him."